Source of Inspiration

My memories about studying design were about the painful history of staying up late in the night all the time to meet the deadlines.

One time at two o'clock in the morning when I was still working with full speed, I carelessly have my knee cut open by a sharp knife. The blade cut a slit on my jeans, blood jetted out, and bright yellow fat inside my flesh could be seen.

No one was around to help me, so I drove myself to an E.R.

One month later, the wound healed and when I put on the jeans I was surprised to see the cut by knife overlap the wound again. At that moment I felt a person's inner was like a micro universe. One's blood, heart beating and feelings all have their own cycles. A broken heart eventually will put up together in time, but the broken jeans would stay in that state forever.

This experience was how the imagery of Migration came from. Flocks of migrating birds hide in the broken clothes.

Story

Eight o'clock in the morning, I wake up but still feeling sleepy.
The blood says fare well to atrium, and migrates happily toward the fingertips.
"We are retreating from the cold!" that's all they say. Following the Silk Road, in a minute, they already disappear.
I get up, eat breakfast, and follow my instinct of avoiding poverty, migrate toward school.
In the classroom, the freshmen avoid themselves and migrate from the senior high school. They ask me with puzzle on their faces:
"Will this class benefit to our future?"
With little confidence, I flip through the textbooks for standard answer. Before I get a clue, the bell rings. Following their instincts to avoid boring, the students migrate out of the classroom and vanish in the afternoon sunlight.
After school, I eat dinner with some friends. After conversations migrate out of my brain and the dishes migrate back to the kitchen, my homing instinct guides me back home.
Inside the bathtub, the sandman like a long lost friend migrates slowly to my mind.
At this moment, blood, migrates back from the distant fingertips, flow tiredly to my atrium.
They follow the vibration of the pulse, carry strange objects that they collect from the far away land, and a message which become unclear because of too many oral accounts:
"...touch...desire...your...body...my love..."